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by returntosaturn



Series: Needle [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returntosaturn/pseuds/returntosaturn
Summary: She was always distracting herself. Always eluding consequences. She had lived so long with it now to know it would never dull. It affected everything. It crawled into every moment, every minute, every thread of happiness she tried to grasp. It built and built and compounded until it entombed her. It was in everything.// inside Leta's head, a little character study type thing but not really?





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“I hear you’ve set a date, is that right?”

Leta settles her teacup back into its saucer. “Yes. June 6th.”

Mrs. Scamander beams and reaches to press her hand over Theseus’s. “Oh, lovely. Summer is absolutely the best time for a wedding.”

Theseus looks over at her, sturdy and proud, noon sunlight shining off his hair, and if she looks hard enough, she can see feature they share, he and his brother. Theseus carries himself with more purpose, more finality and assurance. Newt is always fluttering gazes and trembling fingers, long expositions of facts that sound more like poetry. They are both so very different and yet somehow—

“...spring is a lovely time for a child, as well. If I’m calculating correctly.”

The china clinks loudly in Leta’s hands. “I’m sorry?”

“A child, dear. I’m not getting any younger, you know!” It’s lighthearted, harmless. Something any mother-in-law-to-be might joke about. But something knots itself at the pit of Leta’s stomach and she sets down her teacup with well-mannered precision.

Theseus watches, and then drops his gaze.

His mother goes on, but the conversation is blurred, a buzz in Leta’s ears. There’s a feeling, all too close to seasickness, swirling through her and she reaches to grip the edge of the table.

“...and Merlin knows that Newt will take his time getting around to such things. Though it is unfortunate his travel rights have been revoked, the poor dear. Why was it again, Theseus?”

“So sorry. Excuse me.”

She stands with a whisper of skirts and turns for the house, trying not to look too hurried.

The air inside is cool and constant, and with a barrier between her and them, she feels immediately safer. Calmer.

She takes a few breaths leaning there against the edge of the window that overlooks the garden, tucked just out of sight where they can’t see her. She can still hear the cadence of conversation, where Theseus is no doubt making excuses for her. He seems to be put in that position all too often.

She shoves away, wobbling on her own feet.

She finds a familiar place to sit, to breathe. Upstairs in Newt’s old bedroom, walls still tacked with sketches of varying skill, the bed made with clean corners. The books and forgotten notes are stacked away neatly without their owner here to leave a mess of it. It's too clean, too quiet without him, but it’s a reprieve all the same. She lets the tension bleed from her shoulders, but the knot in her stomach still sits.

The Scamander’s ancient house elf, Bonnie, had apparently lost track of the seasons again, for over the foot of the bed lay two quilts. One is sewn with some ordinary pattern. It could’ve belonged anywhere. But the second, laid on top, is white, and obviously carefully knit. A little blue ‘N’ marks the corner.

She glares at it, feels the sour tang in her throat and the prick in her eyes.

She knew this was right.

Out of all of her choices, this one felt the most like home. She’d never truly felt that, but if it was how others described, then this had to be it. Theseus was sturdy, and true and honest and good. And Newt. Gentle Newt. She’d be close to him again, and while it wouldn’t be like it was—it could never be like it was—she’d still have him in whatever form he wanted to give. They could try and perhaps in time they’d…

She doesn’t fight the tears that slip over her cheeks unbidden.

She was always distracting herself. Always eluding consequences. She had lived so long with it now to know it would never dull. It affected _everything._ It crawled into every moment, every minute, every thread of happiness she tried to grasp. It built and built and compounded until it entombed her. It was in everything.

The baby sinking, sinking… blanket rippling almost prettily, listless…

She reaches, but she’s too late, too small in the pull of ocean around her...

Her chin jerks up when three knocks sounded at the open door. Theseus lazes against the frame.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she bites out, swiping her fingers over her damp face.

He says nothing, but breezes inside, hands in the pockets of his trousers.

“This is something we’ve gone over before, and I just don’t want you to expect something that _isn’t_ going to happen, Theseus.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to talk about it,” he says, not teasingly or unkindly, merely giving her an out, but it sets her off all the same.

“I _won’t._ I _won’t_ be having children. I don’t want them, and my mind won’t be changed. So if anyone has anything to say about it, they should say it now before…”

He holds up his hands. “Alright. Its alright.”

He hands find hers, thumbs brushing tenderly over her knuckles as he kneels, there on his knees before her.

The light filtering through the thin curtains sets his eyes the color of jobberknoll feathers.

“I understand,” he says.

But he doesn’t, not truly. She wishes she could say it. Be free of it.

“I’ve never argued with you. On this particular matter at least…” He grins wryly and she sniffles when a smile pricks the corners of her mouth. “And I won’t start now. I respect your feelings. She’s just eager.”

Leta tries to understand, but her stomach is sinking all over again.

Her chin trembles, and she thinks—hopes—it might all spill out of her on its own volition but Theseus’s hand rises, the tip of his thumb ghosting over her lips, quieting her.

“I love you,” he says, as if the phrase—the feeling—is simple and easy.

She takes a deep breath.

Was it supposed to be easy? It never felt easy.

“Now will you come back out to the garden? She’s got me talking flowers and colors and I haven’t foggiest idea what she’s on about.”

She laughs, even though its thin and forced, and he laughs and the simple sound of it almost makes the memories melt away. She links her elbow through his and rests her head upon his shoulder while they walk back out to the garden.

But she’s still there. She’ll always be there. The girl in the classroom who couldn’t face her fear because hers was real. Hers was haunting. Hers was written into everything she was. At the end of it all, she knows she’ll have to face it. Account for it. The formless monster in the wardrobe was proof enough of that. But to have him close, to watch his happiness though she cannot truly share it, to hear paragraphs retold like poetry, she will try to test how long she can elude it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [allscissorsallpaper](https://allscissorsallpaper.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> Prompt fill for the lovely njckle :)


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